


A Law Student & A Ghost: A Modern Tragedy

by orphan_account



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Happy Ending?, M/M, Supernatural Elements, not conventional ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 00:51:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16230788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Foggy knew it was too lucky to be true when he got a room to himself, there's always a catch, isn't there? But Matthew might not be a con.





	A Law Student & A Ghost: A Modern Tragedy

Foggy had no clue how he had gotten a single dorm. Really, he’d always considered himself  somewhat lucky, what with his natural inclination to be able to talk himself out of most trouble, but this felt too good to be true. Hardly any first years get their own privacy. Still, there was no way he was gonna ask for a transfer- even if the room was a bit too cold and the bare walls seemed a tad too sad. No, these things could be fixed, he thought optimistically. He’d learn how to fix things, a broken heater couldn’t be that hard, plus he could always call maintenance if he hadn’t fixed it by the winter. And the walls? Well, easy enough, he’d just have to put his own touch. A few posters, maybe even a plant. This was his home. Even if it didn’t feel like it yet. It was going to be his new home.

So he started small, the week before classes started. He went and found a crumbling shop that sold a variety of small plants, he spent twenty minutes before picking a budding mint plant. It was charming in its own right, not flamboyant but something had drawn him to it. He held it protectively on the way back to his dorm, wondering if he should name it. People did that, right? Yeah, people totally do that. So names. He was torn between the idea of naming it something completely mundane and oh-so human like Steve or something silly and quirky like Mojito. When he got back, rejoicing in the coolness that settled on him, he wondered aloud to himself, what in heaven's name do you name a mint plant?

A voice in the back of his head said Stick. And for some reason that name, which struck out of nowhere, couldn’t leave his head. And so Stick it was. Stick the mint leave, which sagged a little to the left, in front of his small window, overlooking a parking structure.

Foggy aligned the top of the small school supplied dresser with knick knacks gathered over the years, postcards he’d gotten from friends, dried flowers from his sister's’ wedding, some books that were well loved over the years, and more. It wasn’t messy, just homey, comforting. And if Marci Stahl called him a hoarder, he was quick to defend his sentimental, collected treasures.He had decided to scrap the idea of a poster, caught between feeling too juvenile or being pretentious. But slowly, with everything falling in place, it was getting better. So it seemed sometime that the building- well, specifically his room- was still settling in and all the other dorms he’d be in weren’t so cold, but Foggy really paid no mind to it, just taking the punches as they came, playing tunes loudly and enjoying the escape from the sweltering heat of New York’s summers. 

It was only when classes started that Foggy Nelson began to piece together the oddities of his living situation. And really, it had been lurking in the back of his mind when he’d been able to get the dorm so last minute, but things began to happen. Nothing frightening, textbooks open at different pages then he left them on, a somewhat metallic scent that washed through at random times, the rattling of his crappy blinds. Nothing scary, nothing that really even made him want to move out ( _ in this economy? no way _ ). After a month into classes the fact had settled under Foggy Nelson’s skin that there was an 80% chance he was being haunted, or at the very least visited by a spirit or ghost or unnatural being. It wasn’t a very sudden realization, just an abstract acceptance that that was his life. So he just lived with it, not knowing one necessarily does.

Well, that’s not quite true. His grandparents were old school Irish immigrants on his father’s side, had adapted Niall to a more English name. And he recalled something his grandmother used to do, a very obscure practice that she had told him about, to leave an offering every night, generally a little bit of food. Well, being a college kid, he had to make due with what he had, milk spoiled quickly, so he hoped that the equivalence of his cheap tequila would work along with a granola bar every week. Maybe not the best offerings, but the best he had at the moment, and he was sure whatever it was would understand. But he was always careful not to speak to it, he’d seen horror films, and while this thing didn’t seem violent, it was better to skirt caution.

But where does caution go when one has had one too many drinks after getting brutal criticism on what Foggy thought was a genius analysis on Furman v Georgia? Down the hatch like the six cocktails he had chugged in effort to drown his misery. And it worked- Foggy was a happy, and by all means, chatty drunk. So lying in his bed at three in the morning, limbs heavy and eyes droopy, he spoke to what he deemed was probably a ghost. In the darkness, through thick laughter, he asked, “So what’s your deal with Thurgood Marshall, man? Man, woman, maybe neither, hey, maybe both!” And not really expecting an answer, Foggy continue to mutter a mess of tangents, one point being gender and do spirits have genders and two being that Marshall is good but the amount of times the ghost has left his pages open to his teachings and opinions means either the ghost has got a total kink for the man’s words or he’s leaving Nelson a message, also should he stop the offerings. And when Foggy finally quiets down for a few seconds, lost where even he was going with his thoughts, he gets a reply. 

“Does the devil have a gender?” It’s soft and slick, a velvet voice that holds a New Yorker’s drawl. It makes Foggy scoff and laugh, an inexplicable sensation running through him, and before he can think it through, he replies.

“I don’t think the devil would care much for Thurgood.” Another slight pause, “I’m Foggy, by the way, guess we’re roommates.”

“Thought it was Franklin.”

“Yeah, well, my freshman roommate in undergrad thought I snored like a foghorn, stuck since. Never did like Franklin much, it’s so stuffy, professional. Don’t get me wrong, I wanna be a professional but not like constantly. And Frank is just so, well, not me. Seems so much tougher rather than someone who cried seeing a dog today.”

“You haven’t spoken to me before.”

“Neither have you.”

“I’m Matthew.”

“And what are you, Matthew?” And despite the words, the tone isn’t serious but nor is it teasing, it’s clouded with pure curiosity. 

“I was a man once.”

And the conversation stops, Foggy lying in bed, being dragged into sleep with a voice echoing in his mind. A voice, that Foggy can only describe, as completely and utterly charming and oddly familiar. He dreams of the past, that night, soft and tinged with nostalgia. 

 

They speak after that, not a lot, but they do every once in a while. Matthew is a man of mystery, enigmatic answers, and he doesn't always reply.  Foggy always initiates it and always in the dark. There’s a small fear festering inside of him of what Matthew could look like. He doesn’t like to think about it, content now with the voice that sometimes chooses to reply. The conversations are short, and they don’t offer as much insight as he’d like, but Foggys nothing if not persistent. 

“What were you like when you were alive?”

“I’d like to think I’m alive now, in a way.”

“But not like me.”

“No, not like you.”

He wouldn’t ask again if he thought it’d make Matthew uncomfortable, also, he’s pretty sure Matthew just wouldn’t reply if it really bothered him. A week or so again later, he tries again. He’s taking a break from taking notes from his textbook, making up his mind that he could never be a constitutional lawyer. But understanding the pages is a necessary evil, so with a pitiful attempt that consists of keeping his eyes on the page, not even trying to register what it really says, Foggy tries again.

“So,” he stretches the vowel out, pseudo casualty, “what were you like when you were alive?” He attempts to sound casual, but it doesn’t quite hit the mark. Matthew must notice because this time he doesn’t completely dismiss it. Actually, he gives a real answer.

“Warm. I felt fire under my skin.” He sounds distant even though Foggy’s sure he’s within twelve feet. Foggy almost asks if he misses it, but he thinks better, still his curiosity is not quelled enough to stop further inquiries.

“That’s the only difference?” 

The noise Matthew makes is a mock sham of a laugh, it’s brittle and dark and has a self-deprecating quality.  

“Well, some would say I looked through rose tinted glasses.”

“Y’know there’s a quote from this show, BoJack Horseman, about how when you wear rose tinted glasses all the red flags just look like flags.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Alright, so like, what can you do?”

“I can do anything I want.”

“There’s no limitations? I thought there would be, not that I’ve ever had personal experience, but yknow how the movies show it.” There’s a pause, it feels like electricity is in the air, clinging to them, like maybe he made the wrong move, stepped in the wrong place, before Matthew decided to reply.

“This isn’t really the movies, Foggy.” It’s the first time Matthew says his name, and Foggy regrets that it’s said in such a sorrowful tone. He imagines that’s where the conversation should end because what can Foggy say to that. The days pass and Foggy doesn’t try to talk, this time he really feels like he did cross a line. Not that there’s any hint of that, it’s not like Matthew had become violent or anything like that, just a small sense of regret building up in his stomach.

 

Foggys listening to a podcast, trying to lull himself into a less anxious state, one where he doesn’t feel like he’s on verge of combusting, like he isn’t overfilling with everything that has ever happened to him. The podcast mentions something silly, something he’d never considered in his life, and so Foggy throws the question out to Matt. He moves his headphones around his neck before he even knows what he’s doing, and furthermore why he’s doing it. Maybe Foggy just needs a little company, needs something more to get out of his mind. 

“Hey, would you eat Bigfoot?” There’s a slight pause where Foggy almost assumes Matthew is in one of his out-of-area modes (Foggy doesn’t know where he goes- he just knows that he’s not always in the dorm)  before a very startled answer abrupts over the muffled podcast still playing through Foggy’s headphones. 

“I’m sorry- what?”

“Bigfoot, the big hairy sasquatch, would you eat him? I don’t think I could. His intellectual level would be too high, plus he’d be an endangered species, right?”

“I, uh, don’t know.” Matt had never sounded so alive in all their interactions, not so smooth, not so masked. He sounds like anyone else, the suave tone no longer there, and it’s the most amazing thing to have happened today. 

“Oh, c’mon, Matthew. That’s a cop out! Go with your gut instinct.”

“I wasn’t aware I still had guts.” He quickly recovers, back to his usual act.

“Don’t avoid the question.” And Foggys missing all the rambling pouring out of his headphones, keen to explore the crack in facade, his anxiety taking the backseat for this moment. His tone is light and actually teasing, a way he hadn’t yet accomplished sober when talking to his roommate.

“Well, I guess I would. I wouldn’t kill him and sponsor it, but if someone offered it, I don’t see why not?”

“You dog, Matthew!” 

And then the conversations change. They become less intense. They become comfortable, hell, Foggy would even say friendly

 

The first time Matthew initiate the conversation, it’s a Sunday morning. The sun has slid over the sky, the weather had melted into a crisp autumn that Foggy has always loved. There a picturesque glow to the room as Foggy sits on his bed, laptop open, reading random wikipedia articles, having all his work for the next two days done. He should eat, he thinks offhandedly, sliding out from under his sheets, opening up the small fridge he had brought to get a plum. He about drops the plum when he hears Matthew.

“Are you not religious then?” It’s an awfully blank tone, none of that slyness or teasing or even some kind of amusement. It doesn’t hold a tragic note that sometimes slides into his words either. It puts Foggy on edge, like this is some kind of litmus test, and as much as he shouldn’t care, he really does want Matthew to like him.

“Uh, no, not really. I used to go a lot as a kid. Sung in the church choir and everything, but I’m not practicing. I believe in God most days though, if that makes it better?” His voice goes a bit high at the end, a statement warped into a question. 

“It’s alright, I was just wondering.”

“Yeah? Well, anytime, buddy.”

 

He doesn’t know exactly when things shifted, but it’s halloween. Marci and him are wearing a couples costume despite the fact that they aren’t dating, both too focused on navigating the dangerous waters of law school. But this alliance that they have formed, filled with an underlying undeniable fondness for one another, means that Foggy is obligated to play Marci’s partner. She wears a latex like red piece, similar to Hell’s Kitchen occasional vigilante, Daredevil. She insists she really is just a devil though, a vibrant headband keeping her locks back with sharp horns. She holds herself with all the confidence Foggy doesn’t feel with his goofy fuzzy halo and cheap white wings.

(“Why can’t I be the devil, Marci?”

“Oh, Foggy Bear, you’re too sweet. Plus you couldn’t pull this off dress like I can.”

“Says you.” There’s a scoff form neither of them, Foggy pretends to cough, he doesn’t know if Marci even realizes. Oh, if only he could he’d kick Matthew. He doesn’t know why, it’d probably be good if someone else did know about him, just to assure his sanity is still intact.)

He gets back in his dorm on November first, in the early hours, having been a great wingman for Marci and with just enough booze in his system for there to be a slight tingle under his skin. He’s not wasted, trying to cut back on that nasty habit. He walks in and he sees him. But that’s not what immediately comes to mind, no, his first thought is:  _ oh shit, I’m getting robbed. _

“I have like nothing you can steal. Honestly, I think the most worthy things might be my textbooks, but please don’t steal those, I’m only renting them, and students loans are already kicking my ass.” The man turns around mid way through Foggy’s ramble, and Foggy’s second thought is: _ oh shit, he’s hot _ . Because he is, he is hot. Capital H, if Foggy does say so himself. He’s got nice bone structure and a smile playing on his lips and dark features, just Foggy’s type. Oh Shit, wait, not the time to think about that, he’s getting robbed.

“What are you talking about?”

Time stops. It freezes because that voice. That voice is Matthew, so that means, well that means this is Matthew. And he doesn’t exactly look ghostly. Don’t get him wrong, upon further inspection, his nose does seem to have look like it’s been a broken one too many times and there’s a bruise mid bloom on the left side of his face. But he looks human. Alive. And around Foggy’s age. It’s only when Matthew takes a step towards him, a concerned crease forming between his eyebrows that Foggy realizes he’s been gaping like a fish for more than an appropriate time.

“Matthew?”

“Foggy?”

“I can see you.”

“I know.”

Foggy steps further in, closing the door behind him, still confused. He’s never seen him. He never knew if he really even had a visual figure but like, there he is. Has he always looked like that? The whole time they’d known each other? Foggy continues to walk into the cramped apartment until he’s right in front of Matthew, and before thinking better, he reaches out to touch him. And Matthew lets him. He’s cold, there’s slight stubble, as one hand cups Matthew’s cheek. It’s a terribly intimate moment that send chills down Foggy. And for a moment, Foggy doesn’t know how to proceed. 

“Are you alright, Fog?” And when had that happened? When had it gone from Foggy to Fog, when did they evolve?

“Yeah, yeah, of course I am.” He lets his hands slide off, the pads of his fingers feeling ever ridge as they drag down. Foggy had never thought he was crazy, not until now. Because there’s no way this is real. Ghosts don’t have physical bodies you can touch. Foggy continues to look, keep looking. Matthew is wearing a baggy Columbia sweatshirt and briefs- but more interesting than that are his eyes. They don’t focus, they don’t look at Foggy, but they are a shade of light brown, adding a warmth to Matthew. There’s no pretty metaphor for it, but just looking at him, although physically chilled, he feels as if the sun has blossomed in his stomach. His hair is a little bit of mess, like he just rolled out of bed. “I just didn’t expect you to be up and about I guess.”

“I thought it’d a fun surprise.” His voice wavers at the end, but his posture doesn’t change. “You’ve never really seen me, and on days like this, I can really be here.”

“Days like this?”

“Full moon, gives us more energy, enough to really be here at least.”

“Are you- are you a werewolf?”

Matt balks and laugh and  _ oh.  _ Oh the laugh had been a noise that Foggy had been addicted to before but when it’s with the sweetest smile and crinkle of eyes, well, Foggy knows he’s just screwed. Because even if Matthew was a werewolf or devil or ghost or whatever, Foggy is in far too deep. 

“Not a werewolf, no.”

“What’re you then? Because full moons are usually associated with werewolves y’know and we’ve never really talked about it, so I mean-”

“Who knows?” 

And for the first time, it hits Foggy that maybe Matt doesn’t know. Also, he’s already understood that it doesn’t really matter to him. So, as much as he’s still confused, a new question, one that makes his fingers numb with anxiety hits him.

“Can I only see you tonight then?” Because what if this is it. This is the only time he ever sees him. Well, that’d be okay because they’d still have their conversations, and lately those have been the best parts of their days. Inside jokes and listening to podcasts and banter about law.

“You can always see me, the difference is if I’m an actual physical figure. Full moon, sure. But I didn’t want to scare you, at first.”

“A physical figure, so do you feel physical things then?” This evokes a smile, wide and sharp, both of their body seem to sag with a relief. 

“I do.”

“You wanna go grab a bite and talk then?”

“I can do that.”

“Might wanna put some pants on first, buddy.”

“About that,” Matthew pauses, looking sheepish, slightly redder than seconds before, “got any I can borrow?”

And  _ oh, oh, _ everything he’s wearing is, in fact, Foggy’s. Foggy can feel the warmth flooding his cheeks as he lets out a joyful yeah and goes to search for a pair of sweatpants that might just fit. His room is more of a mess than he had thought, and then he wonders if Matthew had rummaged through everything, and that’s kind of super endearing.

Foggy takes him to a nearby bar, Josie’s. It’s cheap with old neon. It has character, and better yet, it’s not filled with other students. What stumps Foggy is that Josie knows Matthew. She knows him and sees him and talks to him with familiarity. 

“Where the hell have you been, Murdock? I thought you fell off the planet and died.” Her tone is sharp but Foggy doesn’t doubt for a second there’s no affection. Matthew accepts her scolding with a sheepish look, waving it off with a hand, a disarmingly charming smile on his face. Foggy is a little uncomfortable.

“Well, hello to you too, Josie. As you can see, not dead, just been travelling around a bit, I came out here to see my good friend, Foggy Nelson.” He pulls an arm around Foggy who is still adorned in a cheap costume which may or may not be malting onto the sticky floor. “Plus, it hasn’t been that long, two years, max.”

“Whatever you say,” she turns sharply to Foggy, “be careful with this one, never saw someone get the living daylights beat out of him so much.” 

“If only you ever saw the other guys, Josie.” Matt is still looking the cat that got the cream, rubbing a comforting hand across Foggy’s back in a natural, swift movement as if they’d done this a thousand times before. 

They get buffalo wings and fried macaroni squares, both nursing beers. And they talk. They talk about nothing and everything. It’s the most open Matthew has ever been. Matthew Murdock, that’s his full name. Well actually, Matthew Michael Murdock, Foggy asked. The name feels holy and divine in Foggy’s mouth as he rolls it around, testing out the vowel in his mouth. They talk about law a lot, they talk about New York, they talk about music, and everything in between. That’s not to say Matthew tells him everything. He still artfully dodges some questions. They both grew up in Hell’s Kitchen with strong opinions of Justice. And as beautiful as Matt is, the conversation that spans hours, he seemingly comes more charistmastic as he allows Foggy to know more. Josie kicks them out at five.

“We should do this again.” 

“I’d like that.” 

They walk back together, huddled together for heat, with the sun slowly climbing above them. Foggy takes a picture of them on his low-quality phone. They’re fuzzy, but they’re there in the photo, smiling and it’s perfect even if the hoodie is too big on Matt and half his face is blue and green and Foggy’s halo’s is crooked with feathers lying in his hair. It’s perfect.

That kicks off a whole new stage of their friendship. And slowly Matthew becomes Matt, and slowly Foggy stops going out so much, and they talk. They avoid death in their conversations. For the most part, Matt can be seen. He doesn’t always, but he tries. His bruise doesn’t exist when he’s not physically there. Matt never smoked, Foggy finds out, and is a Catholic to his core with a penchant for spinning words. One night, Matt is sitting on the edge of Foggy’s bed, a little see through but real enough. Foggy has that moment ingrained in his brain because it’s when Matt tells Foggy that he was blind when he was alive. He’s still blind now. He knows things though, he’s always been able to. It difficult to explain, Fog, I’ve never told anyone. Foggy holds that sentiment close to his heart to tide him over til the full moon, when Matt can leave with him. Foggy can’t wait to be able to go out with him again, for now, they can’t. But if he googles when full moons are, well, no one can blame him.

The next full moon, Matt  isn’t there when Foggy gets back from classes. He calls out for him. No answer. He’s not even absently there, no vision, no words, and no physical Matthew Murdock. It makes Foggy's heart sink, he lies in the bed, waiting, knowing he looks completely desperate, but hell, he’s always worn his heart on his sleeves. And Matt already knows hows eagerly he has been waiting, so there’s no point in acting cool.

Matt comes home an hour later and his knuckles have blood dried on and his face is worse than last month's, a split lip, blood sticking to his face, bruising new. Foggy rushes to his side immediately. Matt reassures him he’s fine. Everything's fine, hey, let’s go out to that Italian place you liked. The one with the cannolis you said were to die for, Fog, stop, I’m alright, you can’t die a second time. Foggy doesn’t press on how the blood was acquired, just quietly leads him to the sink to wash it off. Matt follows, shining and bright. He’s aglow, his face only pouting when Foggy sighs. Other than that, Matthew seems to be on cloud nine. They don’t go out. It’s not how Foggy planned, cleaning off Matt, and saying things in hushed tones. Matt is sweet under his fingers as he replies, not taking more than Foggy can give, not insisting going out. 

 

Foggy isn’t stupid. He acts like he is, but he isn’t. He uses obliviousness to make people underestimate him. Plus his general upbeat optimism seems to give an illusion that he doesn’t understand all that tragedies really go on. Over winter break, when he visits home, he finds he has to face truth. A truth he’d put together in the back of his head. Lying in his childhood bed, Foggy has to admit it. Matt is Daredevil. The vigilante ever acts on the days of a full moon for the past two years, less consistent than the years before. And worse off, Foggy is a smidge in love with them. With his pout and his smirks and how he grins, he’s in love with Matt’s morals and snark and kindness. He’s in love with how they can talk about silly things with serious debates. Oh God, what can he do? He loves Matt, but can he love the devil? He doesn’t agree with it. He doesn’t. The legal system exists for a reason. But larger than that, he never wants to see Matt bruised and bloodied again. He doesn’t want to think of him hurting. God, he can’t imagine Matt hurting anyone, not when he’s so sweet and funny and clever when they’re together. 

But Foggy knows. He’s known. He suspected a few days after the November moon, really, it was a coincidence. Someone who was assaulted by Daredevil had also been a guy who’d been giving Foggy shit for everything. For his weight, for his sexuality, for how he acted. He wasn’t beaten in a pulp, but he had a broken arm. He avoided Foggy’s eyes, and that’s when some pieces clicked together. He had rushed home and googled the vigilante's incidentes. Over two years ago, he was incredibly more active, but lately.  Lately he seemed to act only once a month, which made his stomach feel inverted, and when he connected the dots, he still pushed it off.

  
  


Matt waits for him eagerly to get back, smile crooked in a matter should not be so cute. He has glasses covering his eyes, thin frames with red lenses. He has a neatly wrapped gift in his hands as he sits on Foggy’s bed. He practically shoves it into Foggy’s arms, but Foggy is tired and weary, so while he gentle accepts the box, he also sighs before ripping the bandaid off.

“Are you daredevil?” A pause, silent and long stretching. No answers, Matt’s face has crumpled, one hand still on top of the gift. Its answer enough, but no, Foggy wants to hear it. He needs to. With a heated voice, he reiterates the question. “Matt, are you Daredevil?”

“Yes.” It’s simple and that’s that. What else is there to say? Foggy had already known so why does he feel like everything has changed. How they must look, suspended in tension, Foggy feeling slightly betrayed but not knowing why. Well, that’s not true, he knows why. Because he wanted Matt to have told him without being forced. Because Daredevil destroys and kills and Foggy loves him still. He’s betrayed himself, he thinks, falling in love with someone not human. He hums lightly and takes the gift completely, peeking the tape off to reveal cufflinks. F.N. They’re beautiful, elegant and subtle and sleek. A sharp silver.

Foggy can’t help it, he kisses Matt’s cheek, soft and chaste. “Thank you,” thank you for telling the truth, for existing, thank you for the gift. 

 

And there’s a new shift. A new step of the evolution of Matt and Foggy. The next month is different. Foggy stays out to avoid him. He’s been having a moral dilemma: he loves him, but how can he? Matt, although sweet and smooth with him, does some terrible things, he’d read the news, he’d seen the pictures. But he can’t avoid the fact that he loves him. Foggy tries to work it out. He stays out where he know Matt can’t follow, and when he comes back, Matt has often left things shifted. Makes the bed, folds clothes, being sweet as can be. But he also don’t pressure Foggy. He lets him breathe. He doesn’t know what to do. He really doesn’t. He does know, however, that he misses talking to Matt. He misses him. He misses the easiness they had slid into. The smiles, the wanting to come home. 

The end of the month comes, the full moon with it. Foggy lies under his sheets when he feels a weight dip the twin size. Matt still came to visit it, and Foggy’s not sure whether he wants to cry out of distress because he’s not ready or because he’s so happy. Matt just sits, a silent question hanging in the air, he’s not even looking at Matt, but he can imagine his face. The small crease, no dashing smile. It hurts his heart. 

“I love you, but I don’t know what to do.” His voice is broken, a quivering thing with raw truth.  Matt just rubs his back, softly, a reflection of only two months ago. That early morning in the bar, with only possibilities in their future. Silence, once again, surrounds them, only interrupted by Foggy’s heavy breathing.

“Love me however you can, that will be enough.”

Foggy doesn’t reply,  Matt spends the whole night comforting him with slight touches and begins to mutter sweet somethings after two hours. “ _ I could quit. I could quit if that’s what you need,”  _ and,  _ “I’m sorry, Fog, I really am. I should’ve told you, but I didn’t know how to or maybe I did. But I selfishly didn’t want you to see the bad in me, but I should’ve let you,”  _ and,  _ “you don’t have to forgive you, you don’t owe me anything.” _ He doesn’t expect Foggy to answer, but he keeps up steady comments. And that’s when it hits Foggy, Matt loves him. He really loves him, and he means every single word that he’s saying.

They love each other.  A ghost, a devil, a law student. It was tragedy to begin with, wasn’t it? It could’ve been horror, but then they had to fall in love with each other, and now it’s a damn tragedy. Because as much as Foggy believes Matt would stop, he’s also never seen Matt so radiant, so cheerful than after when he’s done the ugliest things a man can do. Does he cut out the thing that makes Matt happy, selfishly? Just to keep him to himself, to justify to himself this is good, repress the devil, when the devil is part of the man he loves. Matt would grow to resent him, or worse, he wouldn’t, he would just slowly let his soul lose the shine because Foggy can’t replace alley brawls and taking justice into one's own hands.  The hours have passed when Foggy finds his resolve, he shifts abruptly, sitting up, his hair falling everywhere.

“Matt, I’d like to kiss you, if that’s okay.” His voice is soft, sudden, his face a little red, his breath still uneven and heavy. Matt isn’t bruised, not tonight, he somehow looks worse than Foggy imagined, paler, not as much there as he used to be, but his eyes are vibrant as ever. He’s a mess, but at Foggy’s statement, he seems to liven up. He freezes, caught like a deer in the headlight, not realizing Foggy is waiting for a clear answer. That moment stretches between them, two messes, terribly in love, torn apart. Foggy drinks in the sight of Matt because even like this, he’s the most beautiful person in the world. Even with his hair disheveled and his undereye bags heavy. Matt gives a small eager nod, looking like he’s about to cry.

They kiss, long and sweet. Matt tastes like iron and curry. Foggy could live in a kiss like that. A kiss he doesn’t deserve, he thinks. Matt is everything, a world of his own. Chapped lips and stubble rubbing on him. This could be a home. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> my writing style is fragments and run-ons, throwback to my ap lit teacher trying to break me of the habit and getting upset when I said I understood grammar but the aesthetic


End file.
